


The Cadre {1920s AU/Chapter 1}

by tacmc



Series: The Cadre [2]
Category: Throne of Glass Series - Sarah J. Maas
Genre: 1920s, Fanfic, Multi, Throne of Glass, based on the peaky blinders, period au, sjm - Freeform, tog - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:34:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26544568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tacmc/pseuds/tacmc
Summary: Summary: Orynth became Aelin Galathynius’s kingdom the moment the Prohibition began. She sang every night, the voice of the city’s underground world, her cousin selling the liquor that was banned by the authorities. She was living the dream, young and free, until the Cadre, until Rowan Whitethorn, came into her life.Since Rowan Whitethorn returned from war, everything had changed. His aunt wants to take his crown, old enemies have returned as business partners, and he can’t sleep without feeling as if he’ll be suffocated by the memories of war. Little did he know that when he came back home he would be leaving one battlefield and entering another.Inspired by Peaky Blinders.All characters belong to SJM.Warning: mature content - language, alcohol use, drug use, sex, murders and shit.
Relationships: Aedion Ashryver/Lysandra, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien & Rowan Whitethorn, Aelin Ashryver Galathynius | Celaena Sardothien/Rowan Whitethorn, Elide Lochan/Lorcan Salvaterre
Series: The Cadre [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1752127
Comments: 1
Kudos: 13





	1. Chapter 1

Aelin felt beautiful.

She loved putting on a different dress every night, curling her hair, picking out a headband and a pair of short heels. It felt like she was putting on her armor, preparing to blow the hats off of every person that stepped into the Fireheart that night.

She took one last look in the mirror, checking herself out at every angle.

There was a reason she brought in crowds. Between her delightful voice and her beauty, she had quickly become the girl everyone had been talking about. She saw new faces, every night, all coming in to see Aelin and fill themselves with booze. Some handsome, classy, often polite. Some far too handsy, overly privileged, all who relied too heavily on their money. 

To these men, she often muttered them a curse and threatened them with her father’s wrath and a knee in the balls.

Those men typically didn’t return. 

Aelin had begun to hurry toward the door when she caught the corner of a table full of makeup and dirty glasses. Her stockings ripped. 

“Fuck,” she breathed, as the door to the dressing room was thrown open.

Aedion raised a golden brow. “A lady shouldn’t curse.”

Aelin grinned as she fell back into a rickety chair. “You know very well that I’m no lady.” She ran her fingers over the rip in her stockings. “My stockings ripped.”

“Oh, no,” Aedion drawled, hand clutching his chest. “Not the stockings.”

With a roll of her eyes, Aelin unstrapped her heels and rolled off her stockings, tossing them into the trash bin. “Shouldn’t you be out annoying Lysandra before she has to endure hell for the evening?” 

“She’s ignoring me,” Aedion said, sighing as he leaned against the closed door. “Again.”

“She’s usually ignoring you,” Aelin began, strapping back on her black Mary-Janes. “Doesn’t typically stop you.”

Aedion didn’t reply. He looked in the floor length mirror and straightened his jacket, his hat, the rim producing a shadow over just one of his turquoise eyes. Then, he walked back toward the door and threw it open before saying, “The girls want you out there. Run through before the doors open.”

He left without another word, but Aelin didn’t pay it any mind. She was fully aware that Lysandra was a sensitive topic, but it didn’t stop her from hounding her cousin nearly every night. He was in love with her, and she with him, although the two would never acknowledge it. Two different classes, two different worlds, two different occupations, one of which left the lady of the pair feeling trapped and subordinate. 

It didn’t matter what Aelin said.

It would make no difference.

After a final look in the mirror, and feeling satisfied, although stocking-less, Aelin let herself out of the dressing room. The band was already playing, the music loud, even from the back hallways. In a dark corner, a young couple was entangled.

“Get a room,” Aelin crooned, passing them by. “Aren’t you supposed to be with me on stage?”

Manon grinned, golden eyes flaring as she caught Aelin’s gaze over Dorian’s shoulder, who had her pressed up against the wall. “I figured if you were going to be late, I could be late, too.”

“Five more minutes,” Dorian mumbled, leaning into kiss her, once again.

“I’ll give you two,” Aelin countered, continuing her walk down the hall. “Anything beyond that and I’m telling the band Dorian’s got you and he’s not letting go.”

She reached the end of the hall and tossed open the door. The full band hit her, the music igniting as she entered the main room. Tables covered in silk cloth and candles lined the spotless floor. The middle of the floor was left bare, supporting those who came to dance instead of observe. A long bar, lined with scarlet cushioned stools, sat on the wall left of the spotlit stage, where Aelin would make her appearance for the evening.

“It’s about time,” Chaol muttered, passing by her as she approached the steps. She gave him a vulgar gesture, which she was certain he appreciated, as she went to take her spot beneath the spotlight.

Elide and Nehemia were already in their places. Only one microphone remained unoccupied, which belonged to Manon, who sauntered out the side door a moment later, fixing her headband. 

Aelin grinned as she watched her friend and back up singer approach but kept her lips sealed. 

“Let’s run through the opening,” Aelin said, into the microphone, her voice echoing throughout the empty, open room.

As the band began, she noticed Lysandra coming into the club. Her closest friend, living a contracted life that she loathed, sat down on a barstool and called for Aedion. Her cousin turned, smile bright, and when he approached Lysandra and leaned over the bar, he took off his hat and sat it atop the hardwood. 

Lysandra was one of the few people he took off his hat for.

They talked, voices hushed, heads leaning together, and Aelin was so smitten by the sight that she nearly missed her que.

Didn’t seem to her that Lysandra was ignoring Aedion, at all. For now, anyway. When the doors opened for the night, Clarisse would be nagging Lysandra to get on her feet, find the wealthiest man, and gain his business. 

But, until then, Lysandra would spend her time with the man she loved but could never have.

Aelin had just finished her song when Chaol swept back into the room, loading a handgun before slipping it under his gray jacket, into his holster.

He was preparing to use it with quick access, if needed.

Aelin knew that as a sign.

Her father was expecting someone tonight, someone he expected to put up a fight. Her suspicions were confirmed when Chaol hurried behind the bar and whispered something into Aedion’s ear.

Aedion’s face turned grave as he nodded, once. He gave Lysandra one last wink before following Chaol through the club, out into the hall, toward Rhoe’s office.

Aelin was already looking at Lysandra when the dark-haired beauty turned toward the stage and shrugged. She looked over her shoulder. Manon, Elide, and Nehemia were watching Lysandra, too. They had noticed.

The air suddenly became thick. Eerie. 

It almost felt as if a war was coming.

And Aelin thought the war had been over for six months now.

~~~~~

“Come on!” Rowan yelled, pounding on the door for the tenth time in five minutes. “We’ve got to go! Fucking selfish-”

The door flung open and a half-dressed blonde came stumbling out of Lorcan’s room. Clearing his throat, Rowan stepped aside. Without a look in his direction, the woman scurried away. 

“Could you not wait until business was done to find somewhere to stick your cock?” Rowan muttered, walking into the room where Lorcan was pulling his shirt over his head and tucking the tail into his trousers. 

“When an opportunity presents itself…” Lorcan began, trailing off as he buttoned up his vest and pulled his empty holster over his shoulder. “Surely you understand. Or, maybe not. When was the last time you had a woman, Rowan?”

Rowan grunted. “Have you been drinking?”

“Why do you ask?” Lorcan grumbled, sliding his revolver off his desktop, where Rowan was certain the young blonde woman was sprawled out moments before.

“Because there’s a lot of words coming out of your fucking mouth,” Rowan mumbled. “And we all know you prefer to keep silent unless you’re cursing the gods or threatening some poor bastard.”

Lorcan snorted, pulling on his long coat. “Fair enough.”

Rowan tossed him the cap that was hanging on a rusted hook just inside the door. Lorcan caught it, effortlessly. After slipping it over his dark, shaggy hair, Lorcan was following Rowan out of his room, into the hallway, and out of the house, into the dark streets of Orynth. 

The others were waiting, leaning up against the brick of the building, smoking their cigarettes.

“No Maeve?” Lorcan asked, voice low.

“Maeve keeps us organized,” Rowan mumbled. “That’s all.”

None of them said anything more as Rowan stumbled into the street, the others close behind. The club that belonged to Rhoe Galathynius was on the opposite end of the city, underground, where rich people wandered and the cops had better things to look for. Rowan had to admit that he was uneasy. It had been years since he’d seen Rhoe Galathynius, years since he had wanted to. Rowan used to have a vengeance, used to daydream about the day when his pistol met the back of Rhoe Galathynius’ head. But, those days were long ago, before the war.

Now, Rowan always imagined death, always saw it when he closed his eyes.

There was no room for revenge when fatality loomed over him like a dark cloud. 

“If you’ve been drinking, sober up,” Rowan called over his shoulder, with one last pointed look at Lorcan. “When we walk into the club, you better all have your shit together.” 

They all knew of Rowan’s past with the Galathynius’. None knew of Gavriel’s with the Ashryvers, only Rowan knew that, and it was why he was paying his friend extra attention.

Rowan noted the quick, shallow breaths Gavriel was taking, noticed the way his mouth tightened into a straight line, the way his shoulders hunched forward although there was no wind.

“Don’t care to use the name?” Fenrys mused from behind Rowan.

Rowan blinked. “What name?”

“Of the club,” he followed.

Lorcan snorted.

“No,” Rowan said, simply.

“Why is that?” Connall asked. “I think it’s nice-”

“It’s a stupid fucking name,” Rowan muttered.

“The Fireheart?” Fenrys asked. “I’ve heard worse.” 

Rowan didn’t reply. He thought it was a ridiculous name and refused to refer to the speakeasy by anything other than the club.

“So grumpy,” Fenrys muttered.

Rowan shot him a look.

Vaughan chuckled.

They walked the rest of the way in silence, all taking Rowan’s words seriously. Sober up. It was not time to be sloppy, not time to play. If they messed this up, Rowan’s ass would be dead, and Maeve’s fury would be unleashed upon those that remained alive. 

At least it was a clear night. Rowan always believed that clear nights were luckier than the nights where the moon was hidden behind the clouds, when the rain was pouring. In Orynth, those nights were normal. Clear nights, though, those were rare. 

Just as rare as Rowan Whitethorn going to make a deal with Rhoe Galathynius.

“You look pale,” Gavriel muttered, coming up beside Rowan. “Maybe it’s you that needs to get himself together.”

“I could say the same for you,” Rowan breathed.

Gavriel’s jaw locked. “An interesting situation Maeve got us into.”

“You said you approved.”

Gavriel took a moment of silence before saying, “We’re going to be rich, Rowan. I may not agree with much that comes out of Maeve’s mouth, but she was right when she said the payout would be worth it.” 

Rowan had to agree. It was the only reason he was there, a block away from the club owned by that horrid man. 

“I’ll be fine,” Rowan said, under his breath, careful for the others not to hear the exchange.

“As will I,” Gavriel agreed. “But, if at any time you’re not, I will be seated to your right.”

His right hand man. It was Gavriel before the war, Gavriel during the war, and Gavriel after. Rowan nodded, and the conversation was dropped.

They came upon the alley in the heart of the city, upon a door made of thick wood with a slim, narrow sliding window at eye level. Rowan knocked on the door with his knuckles, and waited.

The little slit opened, and Rowan was met with a pair of brown eyes. Music poured into the alley, matching the tones of nightlife in the big city. Those eyes looked at Rowan, looked at the others, and the wooden slit snapped shut.

“You did send word that we were coming peacefully, did you not?” Lorcan muttered, but then the door swung open and Rowan entered the club, the others keeping close behind.

The moment they crossed the threshold, countless sets of eyes swiveled in their direction. Rowan had to admit he liked that, the instant power he held when he walked into a room. There were worse things in the world than power, than having people fear you. 

And Rowan, at this point in his life, well, that power was all that he had.

The second the door was shut behind them, Chaol Westfall was in front of them, coppery eyes narrowed. “Are you armed?”

“We come in peace,” was all Rowan said. “Business.”

Chaol looked all of them over before nodding. “Rhoe is waiting for you. Far corner.”

Chaol turned his back before Rowan could reply, and led the Cadre through the crowd. People parted as they went through, moving out of the way, careful not to look Rowan or his men directly in the eye. 

Rhoe Galathynius was sitting in a chair behind a small table, in the corner so he could see everything that was happening within his club. Dorian Havilliard stood behind him, leaning against the wall, where Chaol joined him upon their arrival. 

Rhoe said nothing. He simply nodded his head toward the empty chair seated across from him.

Rowan sat, the others standing behind him. 

Behind them, a big band played. People danced. People drank. People laughed, and conversed with one another. Living their lives. Enjoying the freedoms they won after the war was over and done with.

For them, the war was in the past.

For Rowan, for the Cadre, the war still lingered, and another war may come again, soon enough. 

“Rhoe,” Rowan finally said, greeting the man, twenty years his elder, sitting across from him.

“Rowan Whitethorn,” Rhoe crooned, humored. “I almost thought it would be Maeve who showed up.” 

Rowan’s jaw locked. “Maeve is doing her job, where she belongs. Speaking of, however, my aunt has mentioned that you need a supplier. I’m prepared to make you a deal.” 

“Oh?” Rhoe asked, intrigued, leaning across the table on his elbows. “Maybe I have more than one offer on the table. What would make you so special?” 

Rowan snorted. “We both know that’s shit. Maeve tells me you’re getting desperate. Although, to answer your question, I can offer you endless, cheap liquor that is much better than this…” Rowan eyed the glass half full before Rhoe, “shit beer you’re selling. I can also offer you security.”

“We already have security,” Rhoe said, without missing a beat.

Rowan looked up at Dorian and Chaol, then back to Rhoe. “I’m aware that you lost men while they were away at war. I have three more men behind my back than you do yours, though. Also, once this supply begins to come in steadily, news will spread and this club will be packed, more so than it is now. So, without offending the two you have left, and young Ashryver, who I saw lingering behind the bar…yes, I can offer you security, which you know you need but are too proud to admit.”

Rhoe said nothing and Rowan leaned back, satisfied, as a soft, seductive female voice filled the room. Rowan glanced over his shoulder at the stage, where the woman from the photograph in the file Maeve had given him sang. That blonde hair, hanging just above her chin, was curled. Her beaded dress hung just past her knees, her bare knees as she wore no stockings. Her heels made her an inch taller, surely, and her ruby red lips stuck out above the white feathered boa and pearls that hung loosely around her neck. 

She was watching Rowan with turquoise, gold rimmed eyes as the angelic melody flowed from her throat.

Rowan turned back to face Rhoe. “Well?”

“I don’t trust you,” he replied.

Rowan didn’t blame him. “We both have the same goals, Rhoe. I wouldn’t waste my time if I were just here to fuck with you. I have better things to do.”

“Goals?” Rhoe asked, brow raised. “And what is our goal?”

“To be rich,” Rowan answered, simply. “It’s always about money, is it not?”

“And power,” Rhoe responded. “Which, you seem to want, as well, by becoming our supplier and enhancing our security with your men.”

Rowan snorted, nodding slowly. “True, but don’t let pride be the reason you say no, Rhoe. Because if you do say no, you will have neither power nor money, this club of yours will go to shit, and no one will remember your name.” He quickly glanced over his shoulder. “No will remember that pretty little singer’s name of yours, either. Actually, why don’t we make her a part of the deal, too?”

Rhoe tensed, and the second he did, guns were drawn. Chaol and Dorian both raised their pistols, pointed straight at Rowan’s cocked head. Behind him, Gavriel, Lorcan, Vaughan, Fenrys, and Connall had reacted. 

“Like I said,” Rowan crooned, propping his elbows on the table. “I have three more men behind me than you do. All that tower over your sad, handsome little bunch.” 

Rhoe’s shoulders relaxed, although his eyes remained hard. “Weapons down.”

Chaol and Dorian lowered their guns. In response, the Cadre did, too. Those that stopped to observe the scene around them went back to what they were doing, the music on the stage continued. 

“If I make a deal with you,” Rhoe began, voice low, “you will keep my daughter out of it.”

Rowan actually grinned, one brow raised. “Your daughter?”

It had been years since he had seen Rhoe’s daughter, Aelin. He had never really known the girl, had simply only seen her in passing before all went to shit between their two families. He hadn’t recognized her. She looked far different from the little girl with her hair in a braid, who was always smudged in dirt. 

“Shame,” he went on, but nodded. “But, I can manage. Besides, I wouldn’t want my cock in any woman that hails from you.”

He’d said it to piss Rhoe off, and it had worked, but the weapons remained lowered. Gavriel stepped up to Rowan’s side: a warning. Not the time.

Perhaps he was right. So, Rowan said, “Shall we shake on it? I promise booze and security. In return, I get rich, and you get to run a successful business.” 

Rhoe took a long, deep breath. “You will stay away from my daughter, Whitethorn, I mean it. Your men, too.”

Rowan stared at Rhoe, refusing the horrid need he had to roll his eyes. “You have my word.”

“Very well,” Rhoe confirmed, reaching across the table to shake Rowan’s hand.

Deal sealed.

“Gavriel will discuss the financial side of the matter,” Rowan said, rising to his feet, “while I go get a drink.” 

As he began to walk away with Lorcan at his side, Gavriel took his place in the chair to go over the final details. 

“I think that went well,” Lorcan said, as he made two men move from a set of barstools at the end so they could sit. “Until you told him you’d like to fuck his daughter as a part of the contract, but…yeah, went well.”

Rowan was hardly listening, though, because the barmaid was now standing in front of him. “Beer.”

“Two,” Lorcan said, and the maid scurried away. “You look satisfied, though.”

“Do I?” Rowan asked, watching Aelin Galathynius move to the music.

“I know the difference between your angry broody look and your pleased broody look by now,” Lorcan muttered, taking the cold glass in his hand the second it was set in front of him. “You’re satisfied.” 

Rowan snorted, but his eyes did not waver from the singer. She was beautiful. There was something about her that made Rowan think she was her own woman, strongly independent. She carried herself with grace, held her chin up high, and there was a fire in her eyes that captivated him. Perhaps that was why Rhoe was so worried. He couldn’t control his daughter.

And the last thing he would want his daughter to do was fall for a member of the Cadre.

Rowan pulled a cigarette out of the case in his front pocket and put it between his lips, offering one to Lorcan, who didn’t hesitate. Rowan lit a match, lit his cigarette then held it up so Lorcan could do the same. 

Rowan took one drink from the glass in front of him and nearly spit it back out. Lorcan must have noticed, because he grinned.

“I was right when I said this was shitty beer,” Rowan murmured. “Gods, fuck. What backwater shithole was this made in?” 

He pushed himself up from the barstool but Lorcan didn’t notice. A dark haired woman had caught his attention, his fingers were brushing up her arm as Rowan hurried away. 

His intention was to find a place to sit, to watch, but then he caught a familiar face and stopped. She was pushed up against the wall, an old, handsy man leaned up against her. Rowan changed his direction and charged straight for the couple.

When he arrived, he took the cigarette out of his lips and cleared his throat.

The man turned around - rich beyond measure, no doubt, judging from his ensemble. His eyes widened as he recognized Rowan. Then he straightened his jacket and walked away.

Rowan’s eyes looked down at the woman, into her green, narrowed eyes.

“You lost me a customer,” she snarled.

Rowan leaned against the wall next to her, crossing one ankle over the other. “It’s nice to see you, too, Lysandra.”

She rolled her eyes, but Rowan went on, “I would apologize, but you looked like you were ready to knee him in the balls.”

“He was drunk,” she said, as if it were an excuse.

“They’re all drunk. Poor, miserable bastards.”

Lysandra chuckled. “True. Although you should apologize to Clarisse, she’s the one who’ll be pissed.”

Rowan’s gaze followed hers where Clarisse sat at her personal table, smoking while watching the band play.

“And here I thought you came to party for leisure like everyone else,” Rowan muttered. 

“I don’t do anything for leisure,” Lysandra said, voice empty. “Glad to see you made it back.”

From the war were her unspoken words.

“Most people wish I died over there,” Rowan murmured. “But thank you for lying.”

Lysandra grinned. “Maybe so, but that doesn’t sound as welcoming, now, does it?”

Rowan snickered. “Suppose not. It was good to see you again, Lysandra.”

“You, too, Rowan,” she sighed. “Try not to get yourself in too much shit with this new deal, yeah? Rhoe doesn’t mess around. I know you think you’re invincible, but he has power too, you know.”

Rowan looked down at her as he pushed off the wall. He didn’t know how she knew, didn’t know what connections she had to Rhoe. Maybe he was one of her clients. Maybe he found solace in pillow talk. Maybe he just ran his mouth, not worried about who knew his business. Either way, it didn’t settle well with Rowan. He grew paranoid, irritated. 

After tucking one side of her short, brown hair behind her ear, he placed his fading cigarette between his lips. “Try not to go home with anyone who has the clap, yeah?”

Her jaw locked as Rowan Whitethorn walked away.

As he glanced over his shoulder on his way back to Gavriel and Rhoe, Madame Clarisse and Aelin Galathynius were both watching him.


	2. Chapter 2

“I wasn’t aware you knew Rowan Whitethorn.”

“I wasn’t aware you knew Rowan Whitethorn.”

“I did know him, at one point, just barely,” Lysandra said. “A long time ago. Before he became who he is. Before the war.”

Aelin nodded, slowly. Lysandra had come over early in the morning, right to her studio flat, after leaving before her client from the night before could wake up. Aelin, as always, welcomed her with open arms the moment Lysandra knocked on the door. Aelin preferred Lysandra stayed with her as much as possible. It was much better than staying at the house with Clarisse. 

Madame Clarisse was a bitch, to say it politely. 

“Is that all I get?” Aelin asked, brows raised as she pulled her knees up to her chest, atop her bed. “And here I thought I was going to get a hell of a story.”

Lysandra rolled her eyes from where she sat in the tub, just filled with warm water. She always felt the need to bathe after being with a client. Whenever she left them, she felt dirty, filthy, ashamed.

Taking a nice, warm bath helped wash away the impurities. 

Even the ones that could never fully be washed away. 

“I had just turned fifteen,” she said. “He was only a year older. My mother had just sold me to Clarisse. Rowan’s father had been close with Clarisse, a good friend, a generous client. He had brought Rowan along with him one morning, but he never came in, Rowan. He had waited outside, as had I. We’d gotten to talking,” Lysandra said, shrugging as she scrubbed her arms with Aelin’s lavender soap. “We became friends, of sorts. Clarisse began training me, and Rowan came around every so often. One day, he had been running errands with his father, who had stopped by the House…Rowan found me outside, crying, because I had to give myself to a client for the first time that night.”

“And he cared?” Aelin asked, shocked as she pulled a cigarette out of the drawer of her nightstand. “You talk of him as if you were fond of him.”

“I was,” Lysandra said, simply. “I didn’t love him, by any means, or even fancy him that way…but, he was kind. Because of that, I asked him if he would be my first. And he was.”

Aelin paused, cigarette halfway to her lips, unlit. “Rowan Whitethorn was your first?”

“Not my first client, he didn’t pay,” Lysandra clarified, as she sunk her body beneath the water. “But my first time, yes. He made it so that my first time wasn’t with this old, rich bastard that lasted thirty seconds and fell asleep two minutes after we were done.”

Aelin’s brows furrowed as she lit a match and stuck the tip of her cigarette into the flame. “You never told me.”

“Didn’t seem necessary,” she said, staring up at the ceiling. “I was grateful to him, though. He was gentle. The only gentle lover I’ve ever had. But he was a different man, then. Only a boy. It was only a few months later that his father passed, and only a little over a year before he was shipped off to war. Last night…I barely recognized him. He used to smile, used to laugh. Used to joke. There used to be a light in his eyes. That light wasn’t there last night. And when he smiled…it was different.”

Aelin stayed quiet as she laid in bed, smoking. Her and Rowan’s families went way back. She had never known Rowan, personally, just of him, had only seen him in passing. But, she knew that Aelin’s father and Rowan’s were sworn enemies. It was why Aelin was so shocked when Rhoe had told her that the Cadre would be around a lot more, that they had been working out a deal.

Business.

Money.

It was always about the fucking money. 

And she wouldn’t forget the way Rowan watched her on stage any time soon. He had undressed her with his eyes, slowly, tauntingly. It wasn’t unusual. Aelin had seen men look at her like that before. But, when Rowan did it, it caught her off guard.

It was almost as if he was doing it sadistically. 

“Speaking of men,” Aelin went on, steering the subject away from Rowan Whitethorn, “Aedion walked me home last night and the entire fucking time, Lys, all he could talk about was how beautiful you looked in your ruby dress last night.”

Lysandra laughed, eyes brightening. “He was drunk, wasn’t he?”

“A little tipsy,” Aelin confessed. “But it is drunk people that always tell the truth.” 

Shaking her head, Lysandra closed her eyes. “Aedion only fancies me because he can’t ever have me.” 

“Says who?” Aelin asked, and it wasn’t the first time, nor would it be the last.

Lysandra didn’t answer, though. “Clarisse is giving me the night off. I thought I’d go to the picture house. Will Rhoe let you off for the night? We could go together then get a drink afterwards.”

“I’m sure,” Aelin crooned. “I work my ass off there too much. I deserve a ladies’ night out.” 

“And if he says no?” Lysandra crooned, looking across the space at Aelin.

Aelin grinned. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’ve disobeyed my father. Nor will it be the last. Now, hop out of that tub and let’s get dressed.”

“Mind telling me what the rush is?” she chuckled. “Not that I mind a day full of excitement.” 

“I’ve got to run into town,” Aelin sighed. “Pick up a new pair of shoes and some stockings. Then, I’m taking my best friend to luncheon because I love her so very much.”

“Is that so?” Lysandra asked. “And where are you taking her?”

“Wherever she wants to go,” Aelin said, winking. “So, hop out. I’ve got a scarlet skirt with a matching hat that is going to look fabulous on you.”

~~~~~

Rowan pulled his suspenders up over his shoulders before tugging his hat down over his head. After grabbing his jacket, he hurried down the stairs and out of the house.

It was a good house, although compact, the one he shared with the others. They each had their own rooms, which was truly all that mattered. Maeve used to live there, too, but had moved out while they were away at war - although, she sent someone in from time to time to keep the space clean.

And clean it was, if not much else.

On the corner of the street sat a pub, where Lorcan was lying on the bartop, staring up at the ceiling. 

“Aren’t you supposed to be working?” Rowan asked, in way of greeting.

“I am,” he muttered, blowing a cloud of smoke into the air. 

“Then pour me a glass of whiskey,” Rowan said, leaning up against the bar. 

The pub had belonged to Rowan’s father, and was left to Rowan once he died. Rowan didn’t want it, though. Even before the war, too much had fallen on him. He’d given it to Lorcan, although Maeve ran it in their absence, just like she had run everything else.

Now that he was back, Rowan knew fully well that Lorcan was excited to be back behind a bar. Even if the business of the Cadre took him away from it many nights. 

“It’s not even noon, yet,” Lorcan said, jumping onto the ground. “Not that I disapprove, but that typically means you’re in a bad mood.” 

“It was a long night,” Rowan said, and it was all the answer Lorcan would get.

It had been a long night. After they left Rhoe’s club, Rowan was dragged to a warehouse a block from the pub where a fighting circle had formed. He’d collected bets, tossed in his two cents, and made a small fortune off a room full of poor, drunk bastards. He’d gotten home just after four. 

He hadn’t slept. 

The second he closed his eyes, he saw too much. 

“Have you heard from Maeve this morning?” Lorcan asked, setting a glass of whiskey in front of Rowan.

“She got a call from Eyllwe late last night,” Rowan confirmed. “First shipment will arrive in a week. I’ll have to go to the docks tomorrow, make sure everyone knows what to do. Kick out anyone out who won’t follow protocol.” 

“I’ll come with,” Lorcan said. “Gav, too.”

Rowan didn’t have time to reply, because the door swung open and a young, petite woman came inside. 

She had short, black hair, nearly brushing her shoulders. She wore a hat of crimson and a long, black coat. She smiled once she caught their attention, just as the door closed behind her.

Rowan recognized her immediately.

“I’m here about the barmaid position,” she said. “Saw it in yesterday’s advertisement. Is it still open?”

“Yes,” Lorcan said, just as Rowan said, “No.”

The young woman hesitated.

“You work for Rhoe,” Rowan said, simply. She had been on stage, singing behind Aelin Galathynius. 

“I sing with Aelin sometimes, yes,” she replied, clutching her bag. “She’s a good friend of mine.”

“Your name?” Lorcan asked.

“Elide,” she supplied. “Lochan.” 

“And do you have any prior experience?” he asked.

Rowan grunted. It was obvious that Lorcan found her attractive, which meant he didn’t care what protests came out of Rowan’s mouth. 

“I do,” she said. “I help out at the Fireheart, and there used to be a little pub across town that I worked at. It burned down about a year ago.” 

Lorcan watched her for a long moment, and Rowan imagined he was thinking about everything but her work as a barmaid. 

“Do you have references?” Rowan asked, at last.

“Of course,” she replied, and handed her slip to Rowan. 

Lorcan was still watching her with hungry eyes. 

Rowan read over the short list of references, one of which was Rhoe Galathynius himself. 

“You’re young,” Rowan said, scanning his eyes over the paper. “To be working for a man like Rhoe Galathynius, and to be hoping to be a barmaid.”

“As are you,” she said, confidently, slightly amused. “Young for what you do.”

Rowan snorted. “True, but I’m not a pretty woman. Pretty women around here seem different from you.”

Elide’s cheeks turned a soft shade of pink, standing out among the crimson shade of her hat. 

“You come from Perranth,” Rowan continued, looking at the slip she had sent. “From a good family, if I am to judge correctly.”

“Do you usually judge correctly?” Elide asked, quietly.

Rowan sat down his glass of whiskey and reached across the bartop for one of Lorcan’s cigarettes. He struck a match, and lit the tip, the other end between his lips.

“I like to think so,” Rowan said, at last. “You have nice clothes, you sound well-educated, and you are fully aware how to carry yourself. So, Miss Lochan, please tell me why you wish to be employed as a barmaid, a position that is far too lowly for a woman of your standing?”

When Elide didn’t answer, Rowan asked, “Does Rhoe know you’re here? Or, better yet, did he send you here himself?”

“Rowan,” Lorcan warned, voice low. 

“No,” Elide answered. She raised her chin. “I came here because I’ve taken up a new apartment, and the rent is high. I am simply looking for income, Mr. Whitethorn.”

“So you know who I am,” Rowan said. 

There was no hesitation when she said, “We all know who you are. You, and your men. It is not such a large city after all, Mr. Whitethorn.”

“Or, maybe,” Rowan began, “you just know the right people. And those people have told you about me. What they’ve told you, I’d be curious to know.” 

“I’m afraid you’ll be disappointed,” Elide said. “I don’t know much.”

“Do you truly know who I am?” Rowan asked, head cocked. “Who we are? What we do?”

Elide didn’t answer.

“This pub here is a part of our organization,” Rowan stated, simply. “Your secrecy is necessary, if you wish to be under our employment. I’m certain you will hear things, from time to time, and you will not repeat those things outside of these walls.”

“I give you my word, Mr. Whitethorn,” Elide swore, her dark eyes meeting his. 

“Your word is a serious thing to give,” Lorcan said, the first thing he’d said in quite some time. “Do you know what happens to those who give us their word and break it?” 

“I do,” she replied, without missing a beat. “As Mr. Whitethorn implied, I am very well educated.” 

Rowan looked at Lorcan across the bar, brow raised. “Well. It’s your pub. Your call.”

Lorcan took a long, deep breath. He needed help. Couldn’t do it all by himself, and he wanted to keep Maeve away from the pub as much as possible, as did Rowan. But he thought a different type of woman would present herself.

Not the lady before them.

“I’ll give you a trial period,” Lorcan said. “You’ll be paid, of course, and I expect you to be able to start immediately. Be back tonight. Seven.”

Elide’s back straightened as she nodded her thanks. “I will see you at seven, then. Thank you.”

She turned and exited the pub, leaving Rowan and Lorcan in silence.

After a moment, Lorcan leaned across the bar. “What the fuck just happened?” 

“We got ourselves someone who knows quite a bit, it seems, about Rhoe Galathynius,” Rowan said, downing the rest of his glass. 

~~~~~

Aedion walked through a shop of jewels.

It was the day after payday, and Rhoe had paid him well. Rhoe had promised him, too, that after this deal with the Cadre, his pay would only increase.

As much as Aedion didn’t like dealing with the likes of them, he sure as hell didn’t mind getting paid more.

Which is why he paid his landlord the minute he woke up then went into the city, where he found himself skimming case upon case of exquisite jewelry. His eyes landed on an emerald pendant.

It reminded him of her eyes.

He bought it.

It took his entire pay and then some, but he bought it. Lysandra may not want to be with him, but he could still let her know that he cared.

Because he really fucking cared. 

He’d made it a block down the road when he realized he was being followed. It wasn’t unusual for a man like Aedion to be followed, when he worked for the man that he worked for. 

He was armed. 

Nonetheless, when he made it down the block, he snuck into an alleyway and waited, hand resting on the hilt of his gun.

Aedion was joined a minute later by a man, older than he was. He didn’t attack, and he kept his distance. Aedion was certain he was armed, too, but he didn’t show it.

“Aedion Ashryver,” the man said.

“Who wants to know?” he asked.

“You’re being summoned,” the man said. “I can take you willingly or by force.”

“Won’t be necessary,” Aedion said. “I’ll go willingly if you give me a name.”

The man cocked his head as he took Aedion in. “Arobynn Hammel wishes to see you.”


End file.
